Running
by Rose Tinted Contact Lenses
Summary: Anders has run all his life. When will he stop? Glimpses of his life, from pre-DA:O to post-DA2.


_Just a little idea about how Anders' life is defined by his running._

_My headcanon of Morgana Amell somehow slipped in here - sorry 'bout that._

* * *

><p><strong>Running<strong>

He's always running from _something._

* * *

><p>Tonight, it's the men in the huge armour, from the Tower. The templars, he reminds himself - their name isn't yet burned into his mind. He hears them, their plates, clanking, knows they aren't far behind, and wonders why fully-grown, armed men are chasing a twelve-year-old-boy. He doesn't <em>think<em> he's done anything wrong, but he _always _seems to have done something wrong. Maybe he'll find out if he asks the men. He looks back. Maker, they have _swords_ - less asking, more running.

Then the flash of light, almost beautiful in its horror, that he will later be able to call a smite, hits him, and he has a faceful of dirt.

Before they take him on the boat, they ask him his name. He just shakes his head, clenching his fists as though he can grip it and stop it slipping out, and they eventually settle on the mocking nickname of "Anders".

He wonders if he has any trace of his old accent left.

* * *

><p>The templars, again. He knows he is strong, agile, for a mage - he has made sure to be; you don't become free through sitting on your arse reading books in the library all day.<p>

He manages to just about jump the fence, just dodging his old friend the holy smite, but then one of the bucket-heads is on top of him, pinning him to the ground.

He has heard what goes on - he wonders if they will take his life, his connection to the Fade, or simply his dignity, this time.

He is fourteen.

* * *

><p>Just to stop for a rest, they said. Now the bastards are on the ground along with the darkspawn, and he is extinguishing the flames he has summoned. He turns...<p>

_Shit._

For a moment, he doesn't recognise her - the armour is... _new_ - though, he remembers with a smile, she hated robes anyway - and something he can't quite explain has changed - it's in her posture, her expression; straight-backed, stiff-upper-lipped, a woman used to all this military bull. It wasn't there when he knew her. Wait - is that... _a sword?_ He frowns.

"Morgana?"

Then he realises how this looks, and his other words of greeting to her are, "Err... I didn't do it."

Two things occur to him at the same time: the storminess of her expression, and the fact that this is most definitely a _woman, _not the skinny apprentice he left behind in the Tower. He's pretty sure that this isn't purely joy at seeing an old friend.

He wants to run all over again.

* * *

><p>Tonight, he's running from responsibilities, his family; the iron weight on his chest and the constant reminder of the Taint that thrums and burns within him.<p>

Pounce is in good hands, and Morgana is happy - he's sure of it. He tells himself that he hasn't said goodbye because she doesn't need him, not because he's afraid of her reaction, that she'll stop him like the Warden she is rather than letting him go in peace as a friend. Or even worse, crumble.

He slips out of the darkened bedchamber at the Keep, and soon he's out in the rain and the night.

* * *

><p>When he runs from those who have captured him, he pretends not to see the new blue glow, the <em>scars <em>of Justice, spreading up his arm, and pretends not to wonder how long he can keep control.

* * *

><p>Today, it's the wrath of the Chantry, all those who have given him names that are not his own - "terrorist", "abomination", so many others...<p>

He is sick of others' names.

For once, he is not fleeing alone - Hawke is beside him, as always, and with just one look at her smile, even with the fear behind it and how broken it is, all the terrible things he's - _we've, _Justice reminds him - done, he still gives her one of his own. It's them against the world. It always is.

It is raining, just like the first night when he was twelve, and when he feels they've run far enough, he stops her, wondering how he can thank her for all she has lost for him.

Water drips off a cobbled arch they're standing under, onto her hair and his, running down his back, soaking them. He leans down and whispers his _real _name into her ear then, the only gift he can give, and, just for a moment, there is nothing of Justice in him as he kisses her and smiles against her lips.

Where are they going? When will they stop? He has no idea, neither has she, but he knows this...

They will run. Together.


End file.
